Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Astonishing origin | Sparkle, blood, spark | The scene of a miraculous birth, but the sight, fast, once | Arriving, actually, initially, for the second time | Returning, with eyes, to the mysterious | blind spot | at the beginning of all stories | Awaiting an event already elapsed | exploiting a vein already exhausted | Holding the intact shell | of a bird | already hatched | already flown | By way of a history, reaching | what is only now | ripening to transpire…

Gorgeous blow | Drizzle of blood, the heart | very conscious | the city | so peeled, its buds | opened… | Immanent nativity: there is nothing that is not, at this moment, being born | Foal of a car, wriggling in the see-through | bag of the caul | Lovers and criminals | the Bethlehem of the heist and the affair | rehearsing their alibis | getting our stories straight | In early morning sunlight | through school windows | dust motes | spark above the cotton-wool | snow on the dilapidated | roof of a balsa-wood stable…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2015)

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For a moment, everything hung in a kind of solution, with nothing decided, no centre determined, no map drawn up, no conclusion: it was like a photograph of falling snow.

You’ve just defined any moment

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2012)

And then, abruptly, nothing | The storm stops cooking its violet | The train simmers, oil | is not enough | The dream is no longer shared among sleepers | Feathers | dither in the air, flakes | eddy and settle | around the body of the slaughtered goose, still, set to | one side a moment | What should I do? | Kiss your heels? | Stand up | in the burst of bright silence | deliver a lecture to the cows and fences? | Applaud the clouds? | Kiss | each of your four ankles, give up | waiting for the wings | to slow their beats?… | Childhood | rings us and there is a path | spongy, tawny with dry needles | under dark, imposing pines, it leads me back to | to the beasts of my childhood | and all I’ll lose to them, suddenly | I know I must take that path, if I | get going now, the sooner | I’ll reach you | At the edge of the field | in motorbike Arabia | pause though | poor white trash standing in | a free blaze | of poor white trash | wondering?… | And their breath smells | of hormones and sweet | anger | and their manners rough | their teeth for boxers and tinkers | and their need? | Their need? | Their need … enough…

Very still, like those mornings after heavy snowfall, your lungs and the backs of your eyes | lined with deep, white velvet | no choice but to love | It is decided | Your Holbein child’s | cheeks, roses from lullabies and nursery rhymes, clouds | on the edge | of dissolving | The darkest glance | Nodding off | in a lecture on the origin of | Romance languages, safe | to do | there is so much future | But also | as your body | releases the swans and ice | “beautiful, mysterious” | a place you | stop for | no | feelings to hand | maybe with crumpled daisy chains trailed | among the marking stones, the soft | light of buttercups held under the chin | on a hot, motionless day | entirely full | entirely empty | like graves in midsummer

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2013)

Dawn | Meaning to go on to fix | everything in place, but… | To the group of all known and unknown things, you must add | a moment, every time | Wild fire stampedes through the heart of the city | Waiting for the first ferry after making love | Mind not quite | made up | a fuzz of susurrus, the sound of | passing sounds | autumn at the core of summer, leaves falling | inside the glass and concrete, the gulp and gantry | of pelicans mooching close in to the shore | Checking your watch to find | sunset, also | turned to dawn

Moments’ yeast | In the organised silence of a cenotaph, chic | fronts of department stores, empires of litter | mammalian heat and beat in iotas’ portions | a sparkle and foment | elfin | foundry of a working brain | City at 4 a.m., such a dull | drained feeling, money | trying to sleep but unable | In the distance of the pavements and jaded ginkgo trees | a loft and agitation dwindled | to whispers and clouds | vast flocks pouring into flight | So, you see, this is how it works: I can go back to sleep | Everything is, and everything is in place, now | isn’t it?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2013)

Giant, with sunflowers | We don’t wait around for the fragments, withered petals | Growing an airport | Chat about new islands, volcanoes | consult our Rough Guide to Tokyo | looking at suburbs, Asakusa, Shinjuku | Clouds | Past | Flight nos.

The rule of objects, serene | process of enthronement, reign, dethronement | Kings and queens of occupation | say, a podcast on anime | the route to synopsis | Giant, a dream of continuity | Gong sounds, brash yet mellow | The famous here | Party | Tidying up after a party

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2014)

Moon coming with us a way | Tender and soft-edged, white and hazy against the dark blue evening sky, but not | really against | Shoulder to the door of my spirit | keep it closed forbidding | whatever wants to come through | but it wants | so hard | meaning I will be | very tired when this day ends | The moon is waning black | on hidden bleachers | I must carry it where I can | illicit and a sign | of my weariness to recall | those who labour against the sea | the grandeur of their slow | rock and haul | and the sea | wonderful in uncaring | A butterfly | bears down with | the weight of a bear, carcass of an ox or horse, of the dispassionate | city buildings with their rotas of exits, doors tufted with different purposes | the landscape slipping back into itself, into the watch | of other eyes | It is all the same thing, in other words, but then | who would need our poetry? | There is a sea’s | obtuse loveliness to the struggle | of this and that, the fight | to silence the animals or to bid them | speak with our voices | Carry the full moon | back to my bed once more, a bull | kicking and butting at the timbers | of the stall | and the tide | answering | If I could love again, the weight would feel different | tender and soft-edged, white and hazy, meaning | it is close, now, and wants so hard | to come through

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2013)

Sometimes, the love comes again | blown like a memory of summer in a sachet of warm air | in autumn | surprising you | The description deepens | there are colonnades, trellises, wisteria | perhaps even hussars parading | It is the description that matters | for most of the time, anyway | Meaning resides | in the details | the Caffe Sicilia cups | of white china | the man with a doll’s face, a little like | Andres Iniesta | you knew from years ago but hardly | remembered | such things | absorb you | time is how they pass | The statements matter as well, of course | they are like blasts on trumpets | fanfares by unfurled flags | drum rolls | the bold statements | the flourishes, the definitives | but then, somewhat bathetically, we are back to autumn, and the shorter days | the angina, the vagina, the munitions | the conditions | the description | And with the love, comes the sorrow | a kind of anchor | at which the ship drags | the vital, the precious | ship | with all those souls on board | praying to their gods or sternly | studying barometers | or, swathed in gilt, issuing clipped orders | and everyone | both passengers and crew | fret as the storm continues | to build | in intensity | their unuttered cry being | Let us survive, so that we may go on describing | who we are and what we are and where | we are | every delicate, mundane | why and wherefore | how we each | rebel from the mass | and confirm to the tribe | that we wish to live on | to feel that sadness again | on the train, in the office, in the bed beside | someone who makes us | feel so alone | the acute, diffuse sorrow | like vaporised diamond | like mist | floating on wisteria | that state, or mood, or illusion | indulgence | vision | that meaning | that conclusion | which is yet so very | difficult to describe…

A scent of honeysuckle near dusk | the evening quite still | the neighbours playing Beck | The bricks, if we stroked them | would be rough | the step | yet to be taken | not so high | it was higher | once | Clouds, still dimly visible | like Calais or the Duomo | float by | in the calm surface of a pool | of water let fall | by last night’s storm

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2015)

We know what this is for | That there isn’t enough time, but we have enough time and indeed | perhaps too much time | to reflect on | precisely this circumstance | To the Partingtons’ in the evening, the stars in the ice | taking us by surprise | like a rush of snowflakes | upwards or downwards | (we end | a little drunk) | Turned | ballerina | and gin flashes to the goose | and effervescent | whirl of sex | Clothes with the spilled perfume in the morning | I keep coming back to the same things, not that | they’re important | but simply | they happen to be the things I have | new things have stopped happening, somehow | perhaps that’s a sign of age | or merely that I am lucky? | Lucy very friendly | licking my face constantly | We know what to do with it, what it will come to, but we don’t look too far ahead — what would be the point, if points | were what were needed, anyway? | But they aren’t | Like images in a mirror | And as Milly said When it comes to yourself, you need | to choose the right mirror | The young, boiling across the street | on their way to class | perpetually renewing themselves, year after year | and the old watching them | year after year, in a steady-state, statistical ferment | a stillness in humanity | a rising and falling | with the essential | immobility of fountains | In the church, the smell of camphor in her furs | the taste of lipstick on my teeth | the ageless wariness comes in | the bareness which wakes us up | when the signals stay on red too long | or the truth begins to call in dusk | the awkwardness hanging around | the depleted trust fund | For shame, even at your age | you still take yourself | axiomatically | you don’t notice | their first thought is not for you anymore | Haven’t you listened to what they’re saying? A different politics in the grammar? | But no, of course you haven’t! | And different again | And different again…

Have I chosen the wrong mirror | I wanted to ask myself | The results weren’t too satisfying | That night on the ice, with the stars deported to the gleaming darkness | and I kept seeing you | or versions of you | a young man, cycling along | your blond hair cut in a rather 30s style | and in your intent face | a short, green fuse burning and a directness | a destination in spring | That was the ignorance I assigned you | Would it be wildly wrong to say | that half of morality is trying to work out | the relation of ignorance to innocence? | The stars boiled up from the lake | in an old-fashioned epiphany | like carnations and can-can | and some sharp cut-glass, as in Mandelstam | but their function had changed | no one needed | those types of sensation anymore | and even to me, they seemed to have outlived their myth | The tribes in the Amazon basin, for centuries | without Ruth or Joshua | and apartment from apartment | never any love, and love always, and everywhere

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2016)

Enigma, unfolded and | unfolded | Tight buds where the fingertips | flush | blossoms | Harsh, also | rectilinear | a structuralist purity | in the rococo dirt | Gagging on angel, ashamed | Soft, edible, like the house | the children find in the forest | marzipan doors | translucent | jellies for windows | Palpitating | yet dry | the lush | purpose in hand | not the ashes | not the plane | downed in the jungle | Concocting | a brilliant story | but not enough | to make an ending, or even | a middle | But beginning | But ending | Folding | the wings apart | to reach | more angel | Arid | on the ridges | Totalitarian | in the stewed | amnesia of stars | Giant desert, grain by grain | swallowed | a perfect | gut of deserts | At the heart, sumptuous | But there is no heart

Test pilot’s bones | skull | capped by leather | goggles | bagged | in fraying suit | still at the controls | The raw great light of the adventure | the trapped meteor in the passing | the gas demon | in the fuel | Sky, made useful | put to work to flay | our challenge’s martyrs from mid flight | Vines | bindweed | The shattered, empty crate | and no one to puzzle | over spilled contents | Nibbling a table | in a memory’s | corner | the descent rapid | the path shallow | the fuse lit | the gunpowder | waiting | Narrating | our own | part in the history | becomes the history | a fork | in an abandoned road | Fragments, but insufficient | to make a start | Barren, where the heart begins | Glittering | a slew of wreckage | across the green | disaster | a shapely diamond | crisply cut | cold in the hands | of adjudicators | More angel | stuffed in the mouth | Implosion | The skull’s | flirtation with a butterfly’s rose | instants | told for centuries | Precise | record | Ruined | purpose

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2015)

Thoughts | like photographs of falling snow | You move slowly through the fields | The city has no final address | From threads and needles | they make space and the | ruffled and desiccated stars | Although the sound of their voices and the warmth of their breath | fills each cool chamber | and was poured | in the concrete and | was the | map of silence around which was drawn | the shape of the house | they claim the rooms would be | just as empty | if you were there, or | if you were not there | the snow would fall as snow | if there were | thoughts or no | thoughts | as if | these words would not be here if you | did not read them…

Sewing space into a pattern | its archetypal blue | of winter | after the snow | The light | written into | frays and scatters | You catch hold | of a passing thread | emitted by my | sorrow | The day has just been | made differently | Losing the world | moment by moment | not noticing | is our world | Ending one subject by | starting another | Our velvet racket | is the crows’ caucus | Making the snow rise | waking it when it only wanted | to sleep…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2012)